


From Weakness Sprung

by Galadriel



Category: Eastern Promises (2007)
Genre: Alcohol, Animal Death, Anonymous Sex, Bathing/Washing, Birds, Bitterness, Blood, Blow Jobs, Bodyguard, Caretaking, Childhood, Cold Weather, Disapproving Family, Drinking, Drunkenness, Fear, Guilt, Hangover, Hiding, Hope, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Homophobia, Insomnia, Killing, M/M, Masturbation, Memories, Monsters, Morning After, Panic, Parent-Child Relationship, Regret, Responsibility, Rough Sex, Scratching, Shame, Showers, Snow, Sweat, Tears, Vomiting, Worry, Yuletide 2011
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-22
Updated: 2011-12-22
Packaged: 2017-10-27 20:35:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,470
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/299799
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Galadriel/pseuds/Galadriel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Kirill's Papa had always told him, "Men do not run, they do not hide. Do not be weak, for that is where your enemies will strike at you."</p>
            </blockquote>





	From Weakness Sprung

**Author's Note:**

  * For [bgrrl](https://archiveofourown.org/users/bgrrl/gifts).



> I hope you enjoy this story, bgrrl! I've tried to incorporate a number of aspects from your request, especially the validity of Kirill's fears, his conflicted feelings about his own place in the world, and his and Nikolai's (slipping) masks, hopefully to good effect. I was especially fascinated by the idea of exploring Kirill's strength (in what many people interpret as weakness), and I'm crossing my fingers that it comes through here. Happy Yuletide!

"All cruelty springs from weakness."  
~Lucius Annaeus Seneca

 _Kirill hears the bird before he sees it: an unearthly keening, breaking through the stillness of the falling snow. Even as heavily clothed as he is -- wrapped in layer upon layer of down and fur, muffler drawn tightly over nose and mouth, keeping out the chill -- a shudder still runs through his young body. For a moment he considers running away, can feel his feet itching to turn and start the sprint back to the house, but the voice of his papa intrudes as it always does, strong and persistent as if he is standing right beside Kirill._ Men do not run, they do not hide. Do not be weak, for that is where your enemies will strike at you.

 _Swallowing hard, Kirill takes a few hesitant steps towards the sound._

 _In a tiny hollow in the midst of a nearby snowbank, as if the bird had dropped straight down from the tree above, or was thrust there by an unkind hand, Kirill finds it. The poor thing flutters, flopping uselessly, its right wing twisted like a tiny slip of paper. As Kirill steps closer, leaning over to get a better look, the bird cries out again, its beak snapping open and closed, its battered wing jerking uselessly. A spray of red dots the snow around it and darkens brown feathers to black._

 _Kirill stumbles backward, revulsion rising in his throat. His stomach turns traitor, and he upends his mama's kasha all over the ground, just shy of his boots._

***

  
Sweat cooling in the hollow of his back, Kirill groaned, rolling over, pushing against the body still curled against him.

He ached. Every muscle in his body ached, the twinges bringing back in sharp focus every breath, every moan, every scratch and bite and thrust. They'd drunk long into the night, and fucked even longer, twined around each other, neither quite willing to give up control, neither quite ready to bend, sliding, slipping, shuddering against one another, all fight and little fondness.

And now here he was, stretched out against sticky sheets in an anonymous room, the thin, cold light of a new day filtering through the half-drawn curtains, sending shards of pain straight through Kirill's temples. He squinted against the invasion, tried to raise his hand to cover his eyes, and was stopped short. He glanced down, the rising feeling of being trapped confirmed when he caught sight of the sheets twisted around his arm, helping to pin it under a body of ten stone or more. He growled, low and soft, jerking his arm uselessly once or twice, feeling his ire rise.

Yet still the body didn't move, and for one long moment, a flutter of panic threatened to take flight in his breast. He forced himself to breathe, to think back on the night, to focus on anything other than the desire to flee. He could remember the taste of skin, of vodka trickling across a chest, of salt mixing with alcohol as he chased rivulets with his tongue. He could remember his hands in dirty blond hair, gripping, pressing downward even as his hips rose to meet willing lips.

He was almost certain he had cried out Nikolai's name, had screamed for him as he came, but neither of them seemed to mind. Not Kirill, and not the man lying beside him, still so drunk, or maybe hungover that he barely even grunted as Kirill gave him one more shove, finally sliding his trapped arm free.

***

  
 _A box. A box retrieved from inside the house gives Kirill something to focus on, something to calm the shivers that will not stop. The cardboard is hard to hold in mittened fingers, but the mittens give him some protection against the snow and the cold and the squirming body beneath his fingertips. He scoops the bird into the box as quickly as he can, mindful of its wing, then hurries back to the warmth of his own room._

 _He skids across the wood floor, barely remembering to pull off his boots, intent on getting box and bird upstairs before anyone can see. Even if his mama and sisters do not scream and faint at the sight of blood, he knows his papa will never let him keep the tiny creature._ Weak, _his memory murmurs._ The weak do not survive.

 _The door, when it closes, is solid against his back, reassuring, even if it never keeps out the monsters in his dreams. It holds him up as he waits for his heart to slow, to stop pounding in his ears, blotting out the creaks and thumps that always warn him when his privacy is about to be invaded. He swallows around a lump in his throat, looking around. Under the bed? The bird would be close, but he fears the press of the mattress would startle it, fears the scratching sounds it might make in the middle of the night._

 _He can't leave it out where Papa will find it._

 _...In his closet, then. That will have to do. He crosses the room, pulls open the door, and shoves aside toys and shoes, making room. As he settles the box on the floor, the bird flutters feebly, then lies still._

 _He will get it some water, and something warm to nest in. Then it will be all right._

***

  
Water. Kirill needed a drink and a shower. Something to wash away the sour taste in his mouth and the stickiness of his skin. Rising shakily, he stumbled across the suite to the bathroom, shutting the door firmly behind himself. He leaned against it, taking one long, slow breath after another, willing the bile and revulsion back down. He was damned if he could remember the name of the man he'd been with -- _Fucked_ , his father's voice whispered, _fucked like the queer you are_ \-- and there was nothing he wanted more right now than to scrub all other memories of the night right down the drain.

He pushed off from the door, stepped into the shower, turning the knob as soon as he could close his fingers around it. He hissed as first cold, then heat hit his bent neck and shoulders, moaned as he turned into it, running his fingers through his hair. After only a moment under the spray, he was starting to feel better, his muscles loosening, his body relaxing. He almost felt human again. The soap -- newly unwrapped from a paper packet Kirill dropped unceremoniously on the tile -- smelled sickly-sweet, but lathered luxuriously, its bubbles foaming around his fingers, coaxing sweat, semen and sex off his skin. He leaned back, glorying in this small moment of contentment, letting his mind wander.

Unbidden, it ambled back through the previous evening, the freely flowing booze, the deep pounding bass, the admiring glances of the rest of the clubgoers. Kirill groaned as his cock stirred. Without thinking, he curled his fingers around the base, slowly stroking upward. He remembered the smiles, the casual offers of drugs, sex and sin, the elation that came with being recognized, admired, and feared, and all of it, every look, made him harder.

But most of all, he remembered the scent of the man who'd wormed his way past Kirill's bodyguard, a drink in each hand, a promise on his lips. Kirill could have become drunk on the smell of him alone, all heavy musk and spicy woods, a tantalizing tease that made him want to do nothing but bury his face in the man's hair, lick along the curves of his chest. They had laughed too long, drunk too much, and when this stranger had coyly offered up a bed and his body, Kirill had been far too eager to even consider saying no.

Kirill ran his thumb over the head of his cock, teasing the slit even as he felt his balls tighten, his back arch. He remembered waving off Nikolai, laughing at his concerns, then finally snapping and yanking his arm away when Nikolai grasped it, trying to stop Kirill from leaving. He'd wanted nothing more than a good, hard fuck, but Nikolai had been in his way, always and forever stopping him from having a little fun. He'd said as much, growled and jerked away, but even as he exited the club, he'd felt compelled to glance back, to see if Nikolai was watching, and to catch the faintest hint of disapproval in his eyes.

Sometimes, Kirill could almost convince himself it was a kind of disappointment.

Something twisted inside Kirill at that. He felt his stomach suddenly knot, and it was all he could do to let go of his cock, reach out for the tiled wall and steady himself against it. Before he knew it, he'd upended bile and booze all over the shower floor, just shy of his toes.

***

  
 _He cannot get the little bird to eat. Not what few bugs he can find in the dead of winter, not berries, nor seed, nor even the small hunks of bread he smuggles from his own plate. He thinks it is some kind of chickadee, but knowing that doesn't help him to get more than a little water down its throat. It is quieter now, barely moving, not even when Kirill touches the towels he's wrapped around it, not even when he tries, ever so carefully, to straighten the broken wing._

 _The worst part is at night. The first night the poor bird's cries keep him awake in the dark, equally fearing that the rest of the household will hear and afraid to approach the closet; he knows as well as any other boy that monsters will use all kinds of tricks to drag you into the underworld. Imitating a bird is the simplest of illusions. He must stay safe beneath his sheets, and hope the bird will last until morning._

 _The second night, the scrabbling is almost unbearable. Kirill awakes, blood pounding in his ears, straining to catch the tail end of whatever sound woke him. The silence is unnerving, drowning out the beating of his own heart. He waits a full five minutes until he hears it again. A scraping, scratching hiss from his closet, erratic and muffled._

 _It is nothing but claws on cardboard, he tells himself. Nothing but that._

 _He does not sleep afterward._

***

  
"Kolya?" Kirill made the call from the hotel foyer, unwilling to spend another minute in a stranger's presence. His ire rose at the prospect of having to wait any longer to leave the scene of his own personal crime, one his papa had condemned him for so very many times. "Bring the car. I need my _driver_." Even as the words left his mouth, he wanted to retract them. Bitter and ugly, ripe with poison, he wanted to strike out, rid himself of the guilt that always came after such assignations. It didn't help that the voice on the other end of the line was a few degrees cooler than usual, the rebuke implicit even if it was buried so deep Kirill would never be able to call him on it.

It cut to the quick all the same.

The rest of the conversation was short: Kirill demanded a passing bellhop tell him where he was, and he passed the address on to Nikolai, the plaintive whine in his voice obvious even to himself. "I'll be in the bar," he mumbled, ending the call in a cloud of shame.

By the time Nikolai materialized at his elbow, Kirill had managed to convince the breakfast staff to allow him a little hair of the dog. He waved the nearest waitress over, beaming at her as she approached, trying on his most dazzling smile. "Another glass for my friend here," he murmured, already raising a hand to wave away Nikolai's protests.

"Kirill--"

"Nyet. You will sit, and you will drink with me." He patted the padded bench beside himself. "You would not deny me this one thing, would you?" He smiled a little at the almost imperceptible sigh, knowing it for what it was: a signal he was about to get his own way.

Nikolai slid behind the table, settling beside him, his knee bumping gently against Kirill's own. As always, he was perfectly pressed, the sharp creases in his trousers setting the wrinkles in Kirill's clothes out in stark relief. "Of course not."

He grinned and gripped the bottle tighter. At the very least, Kirill could get a little liquid down his Koyla's throat.

***

  
 _Kirill doesn't hear his papa enter the room until it is too late. The bird and box are out, settled gently on Kirill's bed, his back to the door. He's been trying all morning to get a response out of the little body, but the most he gets is one shallow, rattling breath after another._

 _"Kirill?"_

 _Kirill's spine straightens immediately, fear shooting through him like quicksilver. It's over: for him, and for the chickadee._

 _"What do you have there?"_

 _He pushes the box away from himself, the words in his throat tangling together between a functional lie and the horrible truth. He turns even as his papa stalks by him, a tower of strength and force, everything Kirill wants to be and isn't. He's afraid to close his eyes against what's to come, but even though his papa takes a long look at the bird, he does nothing._

 _Kirill swallows, years of experience telling him not to squirm under his papa's cool gaze, not even if he desperately wants to. The silence stretches, and Kirill begins to worry that Semyon can see right through him, right to his heart, and the secrets he keeps there. The urge to fidget is strong, almost stronger than he can bear. There's a prickling sensation just above the nape of his neck, and then a trickle of sweat wends its way beneath his shirt._

 _Semyon cocks his head to the side as if half-hearing the remaining echoes of the bird's cries. "You are my son," he starts, a slow testing of each word on his tongue, "and so I know you will do what is right." He pushes the box back towards Kirill. "We do not coddle in this house. If you cannot stand on your own, you will not stand at all."_

 _And then he is gone, and Kirill exhales, not aware until that moment that he is holding his breath._

 _A soft noise attracts Kirill's attention, and he looks down at the bird, furrowing his brow as he views it with his father's eyes._

***

  
A few drinks later, and Kirill tumbled into the backseat of the car. Nikolai slid in smoothly behind him, tugging the car door shut, encasing them in the relative privacy Kirill had long since become accustomed to. He leaned in to Nikolai, breathing deep, taking in the ever-present scent of tobacco and spice, wood and musk. "Kolya," he murmured, enjoying the way the syllables rolled off his tongue, pleased with their weight and feel, as tangible as the texture of Nikolai's jacket under his cheek.

The new driver, already pulling out from the hotel, did not even glance back at the two of them as Nikolai pressed the button to raise the newly-installed privacy screen. A good choice, that one. Quiet, kept to himself, and utterly uninterested in what his passengers did.

Kirill let his hand drift to rest on Nikolai's thigh, the gesture just casual enough that he could blame it on drink or an unwitting accident. Yet instead of a rebuke, he felt Nikolai's arm settle around his shoulders. Strong, assured, and warm.

He could not remember the last time Nikolai touched him like that. Certainly, not since before the police came and dragged Papa away. Brow furrowing, he glanced up, baffled at the look in Nikolai's eyes. There was fatigue there -- the kind that came with more than one sleepless night -- but something else as well. If he was a hopeful man, he'd think it looked a little like fondness.

"Kirill." Nikolai's grip tightened momentarily, drawing Kirill closer. "We were not sure where you had gone."

Kirill felt his eyebrows go up. It was not possible. "You were... worried?"

"Da." Nikolai nodded, rubbing his palm lightly across Kirill's upper arm. "You cannot simply run away from your responsibilities." There was a long pause, and Kirill wondered if Nikolai expected a reply. " _The family_ needs you."

"The family?"

"Da. ...And others."

It was not smart to hope, but Kirill felt the weight of something unspoken settle around them both. His chest expanding with it, he curled tighter against Nikolai. "Then I suppose I should pay more attention to those responsibilities. I cannot let my family down." He let his hand drift higher, inching ever closer to Nikolai's groin. "Maybe... maybe I will not see my hotel companion again."

Nikolai's adam's apple bobbed up and down as he swallowed. "Nyet. It will be taken care of."

"Taken care of?" Despite the warmth of the car and Nikolai's heat, a shiver ran up Kirill's spine. "You don't--"

"Da." Nikolai checked his watch. "It is already done. He was a weakness that you did not need. A potential enemy to be taken care of." He shifted a little in his seat, turning towards Kirill, cupping Kirll's face in his hands. "You cannot show weakness. You must be hard man, like your father." His smile was without mirth, the glitter of something dark just behind his eyes. "Like me."

Kirill felt his heart twist, as if wrenched out of place. He swallowed against the faint memory of blood on snow, against the bile that threatened to rise in his throat.

***

  
 _Papa is unnaturally quiet at dinner. All day, Kirill has avoided his room, his family, even his friends. He knows what Papa expects him to do, but he is not so sure he can do it. Perhaps one day he will be the man his papa wants him to be, but he is afraid right now, afraid of what being an adult means, and wants nothing more than to be allowed to be a little boy for one more day._

 _Papa may be quiet, but his eyes are on Kirill the entire meal. He can feel his papa's gaze burning like a brand on his skin even when his head is bowed for grace or turned away to reach for his milk, and it takes every fibre of his being to stop his hands from shaking._

 _When the plates are cleaned and the family pleasantly full, Mama asks Papa if he would like any syrniki. He grunts what passes for a response, but as she gets up to retrieve dessert, he says, quiet and low, "Kirill will not be having any. He does not want any. Do you,_ boy _?"_

 _Kirill swallows around the lump in his throat, hot tears threatening behind his eyes. "Nyet, Papa," he murmurs, pushing back his chair._

 _He knows what he must do._

 _Each step up the stairs is harder than the last. The staircase spools out above him, the door to his room as threatening as the yawning mouth of a cave. It does not offer any comfort now, not its solidity against his back, its woodgrain under his hands._

 _Listening hard to the silence, there is not a sound to break the stillness of his room. He can hear the low murmur of conversation winding its way up from the floor below, but in this space there is only the oppressive weight of duty. Kirill crosses the floor to his closet, footsteps heavy, the closet door already slightly ajar, as if waiting for him._

 _Once it is open, he kneels on the floor, pulls the box towards him, taking a deep breath. He will make it quick. Fast. He can be merciful, like any good man. It was not as if the little chickadee was ever going to fly again. For that matter, it was not as if it would live much longer._

 _Kirill flexes his fingers, acutely aware of each pull of tendon and muscle. He swallows hard, looking down, reaching out..._

 _...and snatches his fingers back. The bird is exactly where he left it, wrapped carefully against cold, a little dish of seeds and berries within reach, a tiny saucer of water beside, its wing still gently bound and splinted, but its neck..._

 __Oh God, its neck. __

 _The poor little thing is grotesquely twisted, an unnatural angle that speaks of only one thing. Even as Kirill reaches for it, he knows the truth. Its tiny neck has been snapped, ever so efficiently, ever so quickly. The problem has been taken care of._

 _It isn't until the first few tears slap hot and fat against his hands that he realizes he's begun to cry._


End file.
